


Misdirection

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (But not really let's be honest), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Fake Marriage, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Miscarriage, Other, Scandal, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 15:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19948897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: Betweenforeverandtemporary,ineffableandinevitable, they make their bed and lie in it.[Fanfic for thehoyden's "You, Soft and Only."]





	Misdirection

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You, Soft and Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874908) by [thehoyden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden). 



> _Disclaimer:_ I own nothing. Almost literally. 
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ “You, Soft and Only,” by thehoyden ruined me. Absolutely destroyed me. I am dead and writing this from beyond the grave. 
> 
> (Because that is the best use of one’s time in the afterlife. Writing fanfiction about fanfiction. Heaven? Hell? You decide.) 
> 
> In any event, this is my own interpretation of possible events that may or may not have gone down (haha, pun?) between the lines in “You, Soft and Only.” It is as far from any sort of “canon” as it is possible to be. Despite my efforts, I can’t even swear it meshes properly with thehoyden’s intended historical timeline. I only wrote it for fun, and because I am an awful human being.
> 
>  _Warnings:_ Based on “You, Soft and Only” by thehoyden, and so won’t make a lick of sense unless you read that first. References to historical scandals, miscarriage, and abortion.

\---

_Misdirection_

\---

Though Florence may not be at the center of the Christian world, it is certainly caught within its gravity. Of all the alleged roads that lead to Rome, many do so directly through the city; between a flux in Catholic pilgrims, Jewish refugees, and art critics interested in the hullabaloo that was the Renaissance, the cobbles have been gradually worn to flatness. In an abstract way, walking down the street makes Aziraphale think of the sea: of the endless flows and currents that will someday grind the cliffs to dust.

( _Everything here will return to dust,_ he does not let himself think. Not anymore. Because even his angelic mind has limits, and the juxtaposition of _forever_ and _temporary_ , of _ineffable_ and _inevitable_ , sometimes threatens to push him over the edge of sanity. It is a precipice that pulls at his astral like vertigo.)

Foreigners have been arriving in waves, today. Some come in caravans, some by cart, but most are making their way on foot, dresses frothing about sandy heels. In and out and rushing, the people pulse through arterial streets, making the most of their trip to the heart of Italy. Aziraphale, who is meant to be focused on his mission— _Delicate work_ , he had told Crowley. _Requires patience and focus_ —, struggles not to be overwhelmed by the daily, dizzying array of delights that his adopted home tries to drown him in: the exotic foods, the handsome clothing, the profound sense of love. 

The gossip. 

“He _what_?” 

Afternoon sunlight has transmuted the surface of the Arno, its mercurial waters flaked with gold where once had lain silver. When the others in his entourage turn, that same transformative shimmer teases the pearls and mesh and pins that are artfully arranged in their hair. Wide eyes glitter like gems. 

“He issued _two_ papal bulls,” the most noble of the women—and Aziraphale’s present task— deigns to repeat, speaking in the scandalized whisper of a person who is desperately enjoying herself. “Same date, same message. Except in one of the edicts he names himself the father, and in the second he names the Duke of Valentinois.” 

“But that’s…” Aziraphale flounders, much to the furthered amusement of his companions. “That’s…” 

“That’s the Borgias.” 

Mortification adds colors to his cheeks that no purchased rouge would dare. But in indignation— as in all things— Aziraphale remains suitably righteous. “There must be some mistake. The Duke of Valentinois is the brother of the Lady Lucrezia!” he protests, sure that he must have misunderstood something, _anything_ , about this purported affair. “And she herself is a child of this Pope! You cannot possibly be telling me that Alexander VI _twice_ named this poor boy the product of incest?”

(Perhaps it is time to renegotiate with Crowley their agreement to take turns choosing the leader of the church. Indulgences had been one thing; this is quite another.) 

“Saints preserve us,” a maid servant mutters, crossing herself with a trembling nervousness that reminds Aziraphale of Sister Eleanor, “for the whoremonger of Rome will not.” 

“Ha! As if one could reasonably expect better from a _Spaniard_!” 

“…beg pardon?” Albeit subtly, Aziraphale feels the shape of his frown begin to shift. “I don’t believe the Holy See’s _ethnicity_ has anything to do with—” 

“Ugh, I shudder to think of it! This bastard child— what a monster it shall be,” spits the third in their party, to a flurry of vicious agreement from all but Aziraphale. “Just you wait. A monster like its father. _Whoever_ the father is.”

“Oh, but ‘monster’ is too kind, isn’t it? Let us not mince words.” When Aziraphale’s assignment sneers, her teeth flash white. Very, very white. A small muscle near Aziraphale’s eye twitches. From the glare, of course. Not the color. Never the pure, seraphic color. 

“Now now, dear girl, unless you were there to witness the babe’s conception—” 

“ _Signora_ Crowley,” the noblewoman interjects, with the absolute certainty that only a lifetime of learnt xenophobia can provide, “that _thing_ shall be a devil. Yes, just you wait!” she insists, playing to her companions’ squeaks of horror. Squeaks that conceal the clench of a heavenly hand. “On my soul, a horrible little _demon_ — ah!” 

( _Delicate work_ , he had told Crowley. _Requires patience and focus. Or you have to start over._ ) 

“My Lady?!”

“Oh my—!” 

“Goodness—! My Lady!” gasp the women, pretty and panicked, as like a flock of flouncing birds they gather around their patron. For reasons unknown—that fit of passion, perhaps?— she had collapsed upon the road, hands on her stomach and agony on her face. Soft arms flail ineffectually about her shoulders, her crown, but jeweled fingers never quite touch the sweat oozing across her brow. “My Lady, can you speak? What’s wrong? Are you quite well?”

Tenderly, Aziraphale reaches down to touch the noblewoman’s back.

He is careful not to get blood on his shoes.

\---

“Funny how the times have changed, isn’t it?” Crowley says that evening, his laughter as dark as the gloaming, as smooth as his brushstrokes. “One minute, you can’t be pharaoh if you aren’t your brother and sister’s kid. The next, you’re the scourge of society.”

“Not ‘ _funny_.’” Prim upon his vanity seat, Aziraphale moues his lips and pouts, “My heart goes out to that young boy. What a terrible lot in life.” 

“I choose to believe that was a pun,” Crowley tells him, smirking, because he is terrible, too. 

(But _oh_ , he is also unspeakably talented, adapt at finding and loosening even the most impossible of knots in Aziraphale’s curls. Or his muscles. Better not mention his resolve. But while there is something particularly divine about the feel of Crowley’s hands in his hair, Aziraphale tries hard not to acknowledge it. The feeling smacks too close to blasphemy.) 

“We don’t joke about Genesis,” he says instead. Crowley chuckles, his susurrant amusement like the scales of a sybaritic snake. 

“Anyway, Angel, don’t worry too much about it,” he advises. “Sticks and stones, right? Let the people call the _Infans Romanus_ names. What will he care? His father is either the most powerful man in the Catholic world, or one of the most brilliant minds in the Western hemisphere. Either way, his family’s loaded and no one is denying him his birthrights. The kid’s going to be fine.” 

In the ornate round of his mirror, the shine of a dozen lit candles spills across Aziraphale’s shoulders, reflecting in fragmented prisms off of makeup jars and perfume. As illusions go, it is very warm. Illuminated and golden. In that vein, he tries only to think of gilt, or maybe the ichor he reads about in his mythology, but despite his best efforts Aziraphale cannot stop himself from seeing halos. They extend around the flames, around his head. Around Crowley’s, adorned further with shining motes of dust.

( _Coronas, aureoles_ , he corrects himself again. _Not halos_.)

Aziraphale lowers his eyes. “…I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admits, twiddling the thumbs he has pillowed atop his thighs. “To have two men of means declare this child their own is quite a different problem than the usual, isn’t it? Especially considering the circumstances. Why, I’d even say it’s sweet— again, circumstances notwithstanding— that they would both want the boy so desperately.” 

“And why wouldn’t they? Want him, I mean.” Those clever hands— so like that clever tongue— begin to twist and twine, working Aziraphale around and around Crowley’s fingers. Aziraphale studies his own. One more intently than others. “Don’t your people always say that children are blessings? That’s why they call them miracles, surely.”

“I’ve told you, dear, those anti-abortion factions hail from your side, not mine,” Aziraphale counters, aiming for exasperated but falling pitifully short. It’s hardly Aziraphale’s fault; no one should reasonably be expected to remain vexed when a demon is smiling—so gently, so softly— into the sensitive skin of their nape. 

(The serpent of Eden is kissing the apple of Aziraphale’s throat. _If there is any knowledge worth gaining_ , Aziraphale whimpers, _it is how you can do this to me so_ easily.) 

From beneath his quavering lashes, Aziraphale watches Crowley drape the finished braid over his shoulder, chasing his handiwork like the tail of a comet. The plait’s celestial silver brings out the golden undertones in Crowley’s skin, and as he curls the end of its empyreal length, Aziraphale wonders if he once did the same to the rings of distant planets. 

“Course,” Crowley muses then, mindlessly, as Aziraphale's own mind melts into sunshine, and starlight, and half-formed thoughts about the changing belly of the moon, “the brat could still wind up awful. Destroyer of nations, or a genocidal leader. Or a mime. After all, as we both know, a miracle can either be angelic or demonic, can’t it?”

\---

Between _forever_ and _temporary_ , _ineffable_ and _inevitable_ , they make their bed and lie in it.

( _Endless flows and currents, someday grinding the cliffs to dust._ )

“Oh— oh, my darling, please, _please_ —” 

( _Everything here will return to dust,_ he does not let himself think, because it is not true. Not everything. Not here. Dust is not his destiny, nor is it Crowley’s. They are not corporeal, not like this plush feather mattress or these fine satin sheets. Not like this proud Italian city or the seas that rise around it. No, they can grind and grind and grind and _grind_ , coming together and apart even as the universe implodes, as all Her creatures are reduced to ashes and memory. Long after the End, they will still exist— will still _Be_ — and with God or Satan or _whoever_ as his witness, they will _Be together_ —)

“Please, my— I need— _yes_ … Yes—” 

( _Endless, endless, the flow of time and the back-and-fore tide, directed by the pregnant moon_ —) 

“I know… I know, let me—” Crowley rasps, helpless, beautiful, as he thrusts and burns atop the pillows. _Burns_. Between their friction and the morning sun, his auburn hair has turned to hellfire, each tousled lock as twisted as a flame. They lick at his cheeks, at his chin, and oh, what a marvelous idea that is—

( _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but what of the ethereal? The occult? Us?_ The Angel of the Eastern Gate and the Serpent, the snake, that even now Aziraphale imagines coiling around his naked body. His braid enriches the fantasy; he keens to hear silks hiss.) 

“A-Angel—” 

(His wedding band is a brand where it lay, blistering, smoldering, on the verge of smelting, pressed against the heart of a star. And _oh_ , that heart is racing beneath his palm, hot and precious and—) 

“Just there, please, _please_ , oh, _there_ —!” Aziraphale breaks off with a wail, nails catching on the buttons of Crowley’s nightshirt. One pops clean off. Plaster cracks behind the bedframe. The knees crooked against his back offer support that his spine cannot, and Aziraphale doesn’t worry about falling. 

(Should he worry about Falling? Or worse? How might a demon be punished? What would they do to Crowley? What would they take? What _could_ they take?) 

Aziraphale reads too voraciously to put stock in the idea of star-crossed lovers, but there are lights winking behind his eyes, and he is so close to them, so _close_ to them, _so close_ —

“ _Aziraphale_ …” Crowley breathes, as if Aziraphale himself were a miracle.

And for an instant, the angel sees the birth of _galaxies_.

\---

Stardust lies cold upon the ground.

(Is that what they will become, someday? Cosmic dust, but dust all the same? Is that their fate? Is that—?)

Crowley is speaking. He can hear that Crowley is speaking, can hear him asking about the letter, but the words in his mind don’t match the words in his ears. 

( _Not the kids? You can’t kill kids._ )

The parchment shakes in Aziraphale’s hands, the curls and loops of its message making him dizzy.

( _Forever_ and _temporary_ , _ineffable_ and _inevitable_ , _angelic_ and _demonic_ — sides of the same coin, flipping, flipping, delicately and from suspension. Miserably, Aziraphale watches it spin, suffering the consequences of vertigo. No, nausea. No, a very specific sort of sickness—)

 _Misdirection of efforts_ , he reads in Gabriel’s voice. Enochian blurs before him, a black hole of otherworldly ink. Between the streaks, he manages, _Accidental self-contamination of intended miracle. You had one fucking job, Aziraphale._

(He did. Just one. Just the one _fucking_ job, and he thought he had been doing such wonderfully minimal work, had been delaying this assignment’s end so well, for so long, but no, _no_ , he had unintentionally been doing the opposite, wishing and loving and praying _so hard_ that—)

_There’s not even a word for this sort of abomination._

( _But there is,_ protests someone else in his head. Himself, Aziraphale realizes. It is his own voice, but small— _There is. Not ‘angel,’ not ‘demon,’ not ‘human.’ Not even ‘Nephilim,’ but— there_ is _a word._ )

 _Go to London. Uriel will meet you there to take care of matters._

“What’s it say?” Crowley asks. In the echoing silence, Aziraphale can hear the Fear of God in each word. 

He doesn’t lie. 

(But neither does he tell the truth.)

\---

Aziraphale has always been soft. He keeps the added softness, after. About 10 grams of it.

About as much as a ring.

\---


End file.
